A snore fit to wake the d—No. A snore like a shot at dawn billowed from her lips. Lips still swollen, red, and wet from his kiss.
Resisting the temptation to join Daria in his bed—and swiftly join their bodies as one—he left her in the care of a respectable young lady’s maid, one whom his sister, Raina—thank God—had the foresight to send from her and Kilburn’s household.
He lingered too long, considering her curled form.
She stirred, and he took off.
That had been seven hours earlier.
Now seated in his office, sans jacket and with his cravat long discarded, Argyll pored over the week’s ledgers—for the second time.
Knock-knock-kn—
“Ent—”
His permission proved unnecessary. The insolent bastard on the other side barged through before Argyll could grant leave.
“DuMond,” he muttered. “Of course.”
The other man grinned. “Marriage has not improved your temper.”
Argyll gritted his teeth. “My temper didn’t need improving.”By God, I’m bloody affable.The charmer of all charmers.
“No.” DuMond availed himself of a wingback chair. “Yournewtemper, however, bears strict improvement.”
“Go to hell, DuMond.” He tossed his pen down. Ink droplets landed like black raindrops upon his previously meticulous books and mahogany desktop.
His business partner, dangerously close to finding himself delivered to Dynevor’s doorstep, looked bemusedly at the incriminating stains.
Looping both hands behind his head, DuMond reclined. “You strike me as frustrated.”
Anger blazed; tension snapped through him. “I bloody am,” he snapped.And you know why, that silent voice jeered. There was no place Argyll wanted to be more than in his bedchambers, with Daria beneath him, and each of them at least four orgasms into their wedding night.
So why are you here? Why did you settle her in your rooms and take off?
But Argyll knew the reason.
Amusement flickered across DuMond’s face. “There’s something that can help with that…”
Argyll’s nostrils flared. By God, he’d kill—
“A stiff drink,” DuMond said.
Hopping up, he made for the sideboard, grabbed a bottle and a glass, and returned.
With the fluid ease of a tavern landlord, he poured smoothly, slid the snifter past the ink splattering’s, and stopped it directly beneath Argyll’s nose.
Argyll stared, going cross-eyed. A hard brandy, whisky, gin—hell, any drink would settle his nerves. Not this time. Tonight, his club’s entire liquor stock wouldn’t make a bloody dent.
Cursing, he pushed aside the snifter. The amber contents swayed wildly, aperfectreflection of Argyll’s inner tumult.
DuMond reclaimed his chair and, by the bloody way he settled in, appeared in no rush to leave.
“Is there a reason you’ve interrupted me? A situation on the floors? A fight amongst the female staff?” Whatever it was, he’d have his partner be out with it, and then out of his bloody sight.
“Interrupted you?” DuMond’s tone dripped with amusement.
“Yes. I have work to attend.” To illustrate his point, Argyll grabbed the last ledger—he’d checked twice—and dragged it forward.
